Who shall guard and guide?
by SarahBelle
Summary: People have no trouble dying in France. It's staying dead they seem to find difficult...in a sense. Crossover with Garth Nix's Abhorsen trilogy, complete with arcane music, magic, monsters, necromancers, love, Life, Death, and a talking cat.
1. Chapter 1

**Who shall guard and guide?**

**I thought, with the success of L'epoux du cadavre, I would do another crossover phic, since people seem to like them. So I mused: apart from Corpse Bride, what hasn't been crossed over so far?**

**And then I thought of Garth Nix's Abhorsen trilogy.**

**So, yes. I have a weird mind.**

**Anyway, I have two apologies to make to fellow writers:**

**The first is to Elektra 1, since my Erik's job will be to hunt down and get rid of the Dead, much like your Hunter Erik; and**

**Second to Omega Devin, since you were the first to have the idea of a talking Ayesha. If you read the Abhorsen trilogy, you will understand my branch of thought. I hope.**

**

* * *

This story takes place in a Europe and a world that is the same as our own, with one important difference: magic. For centuries, perhaps even millennia, humans served and drew upon the power that gave life to the earth and everything in it, the Charter. By using Charter marks to create spells, Charter Mages could summon fire or split earth, whistle up a gale or cause the heavens to open and the rain to fall. They could create and destroy, heal and kill, see into the future or the past. Many became kings or queens and ruled the countries of the world and created mighty empires, and their works were awesome to see. **

**But those times are the dust of ages, and the balance and order has been lost. Now to be a Charter Mage is a less than safe occupation as the Bloodlines weaken and Charter magic begins to leak from the world, and the enemies of the Charter begin to increase. Free Magic, angry and forceful and the power which lends strength to the sorcerers and foul creatures that wallow in its influence, is growing fast. As humans find more ingenious ways to kill each other necromancers are provided with plenty of fodder to summon evil spirits from beyond the Gates of the river of Death, and turn them upon hapless innocents. Death is encroaching into Life; soon it may overwhelm the world altogether.**

**Who will guard the living, when the Dead arise?** **(A.N. Yes, I **_**know**_** it sounds rather Buffy-the-vampire-slayer-ish. So sue me. No, wait, sue Garth Nix instead. You'll get more out of him in the long run.)**

* * *

**Prologue**

The midwife tucked a lock of unruly hair back under her head scarf, and bent her eyes once more to her task. It was at least not difficult to see what she was doing; the woman writhing on the bed before her was outlined by the glow of literally thousands of Charter marks, swimming up and down her limbs like luminous insects. They spangled in her sweat soaked dark hair, shimmied across her face, exhaled in every breath – or groan – that came out of her mouth; they poured off the bed like water and grouped around her like a luminous cloud. Many thousands of marks for warmth and shielding, for light and protection, for prevention of decay and for the relief of pain, though from what she could tell the latter ones were not doing the woman much good.

She had rarely seen so many Charter marks in one place during her forty odd years, and never conjured by one person at one time: the man she assumed was the father of the child that was now being brought into Life – though the strangely pale, tall Charter Mage who had summoned her from the village to this tiny, remote camp, and who now lurked in the corner of the tent, seeming exhausted from his efforts to ensure the woman's comfort, might well have been the girl's father for all she knew. There were few lines on his face and his age was impossible for her to tell, despite the streaks of grey in his hair, but there was definitely a great weight upon him, whether from many years or from some other burden entirely.

But come now; she should not let her attention wander! Her mother would surely have scolded her of such neglect at this critical moment, especially when she could see the new born one about to come into this world, the head crowning, a red bubble emerging from between its mother's straining legs.

"Nearly there, my dear, nearly there. One more push, now!" she cried encouragingly, positioning her hands to catch the infant. The Charter sending standing by the woman's head blithely wiped a damp cloth across the hot flesh with glowing fingers, its serene and immovable face a sharp contrast to the straining features of the one it served. The magic servant was yet another sign of the strangeness of this extraordinary couple, apart from the handful of gold coins the man had coaxed her from her house with in the middle of the night – very few still had access to the books that allowed someone to create a being as life-like as this one, the only sign of its otherworldly nature the faint gleam of the Charter marks that flowed beneath its skin, instead of blood.

The woman roared – such a strange sound, coming from so petite a being – and with that the baby fell out from between the girl's legs and into her hands, like ripe fruit. She raised it up, preparing to strike him, for she could see at once that it was a boy, to make him start breathing-

And then she saw the face.

She had seen visages like that before, however little she cherished the memories; but never on something living.

_Dead!_

The mother hissed in fear as she realised what had come out of her, and scrambled away to the top of the bed, the sending still dabbing unconcernedly at her forehead. At once she threw the thing away from her; but the man's pale hands grasped it and pulled it away quickly into his own embrace as he stared in outrage at her.

"Are you _mad_, woman?" he spat, once he had a firm hold on the creature. "What do you think you're doing?"

"What I should rightly do, as a servant of the Charter, whose mark I bear," she replied at once, fervently touching her own Charter mark upon her forehead and feeling the familiar warmth of the Charter comfort her, if only slightly, in the presence of that _creature._ "And if you are a true servant of the Charter as well, you would not hold it to you so dearly."

The man stared at her before looking down at the thing's face for the first time. If it were possible she would say his skin turned a shade paler at the sight of what he held, but after a few moments he raised his eyes again and said, quite calmly, "Would you provide the baptism, good mother?"

She gaped at him. "Are _you_ mad, sir? Baptise _that?_ The Charter would never accept such a travesty!"

But the mage paid no attention to her protests at all, for his eyes were fixed once more upon the baby – if that was what she could really call it – in his arms. The creature was not moving nor breathing, and its horrid yellow eyes stared blankly at nothing. Well, that was certainly a relief. The thing was truly dead; and not _Dead._

But no – his eyes were not on the child's, for want of a better word, face; they stared at nothing, saw nothing. As she watched, in growing awe and terror, a chill started to emanate from his form. Ice crystals began to form on the folds of his open coat and across the bells she now, for only the first time this night, saw on the bandolier across his chest…

That was more than enough for her. Without a backwards look at the young mother, still moaning softly in disbelief and pain, she grabbed her cloak and her midwifery tools and fled, out of the tent and into the black night, which at the moment held no more terror for her than what she left behind in the tent; a monster, and its father….

_Necromancer!_

* * *

He was vaguely aware of the midwife fleeing in terror, back in Life, but at the moment he was focused almost entirely on the errant spirit of his son. He could hear a voice, a human voice, more beautiful than most, crying out. He paused, doubtful, the waters of the First Precinct swirling about his knees as they leeched him of colour. Surely no human should sound like that, not even one like _him? _Was this a trick, a trap? 

Then he caught sight of the little spirit, not far ahead, bawling his head off and thrashing, which was good, for it showed great integrity on the child's part and in his spirit – and heading straight for the First Gate. That was not good.

Swiftly he began to wade forward, avoiding the pools and eddies which caught unwary travellers and pulled them into the current of the river. If the child passed the gateway, then it would be all the harder for him to retrieve his spirit, and it might become warped in the time it took to reach him. Already he could see the colour draining from a waving, cubby little arm. He had little enough time as it was.

But something was already coming up the other way, for he could hear the tone of the gateway changing. It was something big, something which muted the roar of the gate, and he could feel its malice and hunger like a knife blade across the skin. He cursed, and as he increased his speed his hand darted to the bandoleer, and alighted on a bell handle, ready to pull it out should the as yet unseen threat reveal itself.

The child was almost at the gateway now, but so was he. Swiftly, dreamlike, he reached out for the small form, just as some dark thing reached out from the black depths of the hole in the mist of the gateway, and then…

His arm beat the Dead thing's arm and wrapped itself around the child, pulling him sharply out of reach and to the safety of his chest, and at the same time he pulled the bell out and rang it in a double eight shape.

There was a hiss and gurgle that shore through his eardrums, and then the unseen thing beyond the Gate was gone, sucked away by the river beyond. But he was just able to catch a glimpse of a pair of burning red eyes – and to be aware that if he had not caught the creature off guard, it would not have been pleasant for either him or the child. _Foolish of me, foolish…_

With a sigh he replaced the bell in the bandoleer, and only then looked down at the babe he held in the crook of his arm. The baby stared back with wide, yellow eyes in its decayed ruin of a face; so like a Dead thing itself, and yet as unlike as could be. Then, as if conferring a great favour upon him, the yellow eyes closed, and he fell fast asleep.

He sighed again as he looked upon his sleeping son. This was not good. This was not good at all. And it would only get worse.

But as the sense of the child's warmth and life flowed into him, giving him the strength he needed to pace back toward Life itself, he could not help but be comforted, and even smile a little. His son had died once, but he would not do so again so easily.

* * *

He blinked as the frost fell off his face and nose and unstuck from his eyes, blinked again and focused on Madeline as she sat hunched away at the far side of the makeshift bed. Her eyes were wide, but not with pain; the Charter marks had taken care of that, healing her torment and stress. Nor, however, were they wide with joy. 

He felt so very tired as he quietly accepted a blanket from Marie, who had finished its attentions to Madeline for the moment and focused at once on its duty to its master as well as its mistress. He wrapped the cloth around the baby, wiped the…face…and then advanced to hold him out to Madeline. She looked at their son, and then at him, her face blank and unreadable.

"Well, take him, can't you?" he said, when it became apparent that she was not preparing to welcome the boy into her arms.

"You shouldn't have brought it back." Her voice came as if from beyond the grave, reminding him uncomfortably of past creatures he had fought. But he had never believed that such a tone could come from _her_ throat. "You should have left it there."

"You would have had me consign our son to Death?"

"You are the Abhorsen. It is what you do, after all." She turned her head away, away from both of them. He was flabbergasted. That she could behave in such a way, in such a manner, towards a child! An innocent child! True that his looks were against him, but he was still their son! He was aware that Marie's head was turning to and fro, listening to them argue with as much curiosity as the sending could show, eyebrows slightly raised and blinking rapidly. He wished fervently that it would go away – even if it was not truly alive and probably could not understand what was going on, that pretty bland face was intruding upon a very private matter indeed.

"Madeline, just take him!" "No, I _won't!"_ And now he saw her beautiful eyes were brimming with tears. "I _won't _take the foul thing, Charles – _no!_" she exclaimed as he again tried to put the child into her arms; she batted him away, waking the babe again and making him wail. "Keep it _away_ from me!"

"Madeline! For shame! You might not be expected to show any more courage; but you should be ashamed to show less!"

"I don't care!" His wife buried her face in the bed furs; her shoulders now heaving with sobs. "I don't _care!_ I don't want it. You shouldn't have brought it back, Charles – I _know_ you shouldn't have!"

He stared at his wife before sighing deeply, from the very depths of his spirit, and turning away. There was no point in arguing his case – Madeline, he had found all too easily, was always determined to get her own way, no matter what.

She would not get her own way in this, though.

"Where are you going?" Madeline had now emerged from the bed furs, her sweet face sticky with tears, but also sulky and pouting like a spoiled, selfish child herself.

_Is that really you? _he thought, as he replied, "I am taking him away from you, my wife, since you so obviously do not wish to see him. Maybe Ayesha will appreciate him more."

She scowled, all her beauty gone, transforming her face into a snarl wreathed with tremulous hatred. "Oh, _fine_ then; go off to your pissy little Free Magic mistress. Never mind _me._ I don't know why you bother with me sometimes, Charles." And she flung herself down into the bed furs and heaped them over herself, truly tantrum like.

He bit back a sharp retort as he grudgingly sketched the Charter marks for sleep, healing, rest and calm, and indicated towards the hidden form in the bed. In a few moments her shoulders stopped shaking, and her gulping, irritating sobs stopped altogether, as she in her turn fell asleep. Marie at once began rearranging the blankets around her, making her more comfortable and finishing the job of pulling off the bloodstained sheets from the mattress.

Without a backwards glance he walked out of the tent with the child, quiet once more, cradled carefully in his arms, a scowl still wreathing his own face. Why he had ever married her, he did not know. No, he did know. It was because he had loved her. But now, he didn't know what to think any more.

Better not to think, for the moment. "Ayesha?" he called softly, staring into the darkness which surrounded the tent and the cart that stood by it. "Ayesha?"

At once his servant's exotic, lethargic voice emerged from between the dark forms of the trees, only a few feet away. "I take this to mean that the _blessed_ event had occurred, Charles?"

"You could say that," he replied, searching in vain for some sign of her in the shadows. Madeline hated Ayesha, so the being – more out of respect for himself than for his wife, whom she dismissed as far less than worthy of him and certainly not worthy of her time – always kept her distance whenever they made camp; and of course Madeline would not dream of having her at the birth of her child. Madeline would not dream of a lot of things concerning the achievement of perfection in her life.

"Judging by the way the midwife fled in such a panic, and the screaming fit your precious little wife just had, I believe this is not the joyous event you hoped it would be?"

"That was my doing," he admitted, reluctantly, "though I believe the babe had a part in it."

"Dismay on all sides?"

"Indeed."

There was silence between the two, for a while. But it was not the silence that was so familiar to them – the silence of years of companionship, which meant that nothing had to be said. This absence of speech signified that neither of them was sure of what to say, which was quite unusual in this particular partnership.

"So the child lives?" came her voice, at last.

"Could you not guess?"

"Oh, I can guess all right." There was a slight pause once more, before she spoke again. "May I see him?"

"You need not ask, Ayesha." Again he looked to her emergence, but at first he saw nothing. _What...?_

And then he thought to look down. A strange cat had just made its way into the circle of light which the fire just outside the tent made; from what he could tell in the flicker between light and dark it was the colour of cream with brown fur upon its paws, the tip of its tail, its ears and its muzzle, as if it had rooted in mud – as if so elegant a creature could ever do something as common place as rooting – and eyes such a bright blue as to be like sapphires. A black leather collar was fastened around its neck, without ornamentation except for a single bell, which swung and chimed ever so slightly as the creature moved.

And its shadow, he saw all too well, was not always that of a cat.

But this was not Ayesha's usual form. In fact it was no form she had ever taken at all, or at least not in his lifetime.

The eyes of both man and cat met. They both knew what this meant, and they could see that the other knew as well.

Charles licked his suddenly dry lips, and carefully knelt down barely inches from the cat, holding out his son to her, as if in offering. If she was surprised at the appearance of the babe, she made no sign of it whatsoever. She sat down on her dainty haunches and looked from him to the boy and back again, a number of times. He cleared his throat.

"Ayesha, this is the boy who will one day be your master…"

The little cat now looked steadily at the babe for a long while, and the boy stared back with his wide, unearthly yellow eyes in the rotting plain of his face. Something unreadable seemed to be passing between the two, a conversation which even he with his unnatural powers could not and was not meant to hear. Then, ever so carefully, the feline leant forward, her tongue darted out and touched the child's forehead; and when the little pink slice of her tongue came away, a Charter mark glowed where it had been, a baptism into the everlasting Charter.

Charles let out his breath, which he had not been aware he had been holding until then, and spoke again, choosing his son's name in that exhalation.

"…Erik."

**

* * *

So Erik's mum hates him, and his dad likes him, and he's been saved from death and baptised in the Charter! Wow! Cool stuff! **

**Review for the half Irish seamstress, please!**


	2. Chapter 2

**I've decided to rejig the story somewhat; so instead of starting in the middle of it, we're starting at the start. Which is a good place to start.**

* * *

The fish that lay upon the dry bank of the small river was dead and had plainly been dead for some time, for if one got too close to it the smell of slowly rotting flesh was all too apparent. The silvery scales still gracing its body glittered weakly in the sunlight, as if shining their final light before going out for good, and its one visible eye stared blankly, grossly, glassily up into the canopy of tree branches far above it.

A small boy, not above four or five years old, crouched practically next to the body and gazed at it intently; his bright yellow eyes staring through the holes stitched in the mask which he wore even on this hot day, covering his face from the hair line to the upper lip, the near black material and his own dark hair a sharp contrast to his pale skin. He studied the body in front of him with a curious air, like a perfumer acknowledging a smell he recognised rather than a young child confronted with something he should not understand. From the set of his mouth, he looked as if he understood what had happened to the fish all too well, and was not dismayed by the fact in the least.

At last the child reached a decision, and leaned forward in order to touch the skin of the fish, his fingers curling in anticipation of the contact. But before flesh and flesh could meet, a small cream cat abruptly leapt up from behind him onto the boy's shoulders, throwing him off balance as it settled itself into what was obviously a familiar position for it. When it had done so to its evident satisfaction, it opened its mouth and spoke with a luxurious, curiously deep voice:

"And what have you discovered now, Erik? It is surely kind of you to find me a fish, but I would prefer one less decayed – fresh fish tastes much better."

"I do wish you wouldn't distract me all the time, Ayesha," said the boy, whose name was indeed Erik, his voice unnaturally clear and beautiful for a toddler. "You've spoiled my concentration utterly."

The little cat yawned and snorted, the bell around her neck tinkling in apparent amusement. "_Concentration?_ Madeline would laugh to hear you say that, if she was capable of laughing, which I strongly doubt. Concentration, indeed. Since when have _you_ ever concentrated on anything?"

"I can do it perfectly well when I want to," the boy replied as he stood up, obviously stung by the creature's soft jibes and his solemn tone quite gone in the face of indignation. "Get off, you're awfully heavy."

"Mmm. No, I don't think I will." The cat settled herself more snugly around Erik's neck and dug her paws into his dark shirt. The buzz of Charter marks in her collar tingled against his skin. "What were you concentrating on doing anyway, if I may be so bold as to ask?"

The boy looked down at the fish again, and his voice took on a softer air as his eyes traced its limp outline and its gleaming fins. "It's so pretty."

Claws dug into his shoulder at that, making him squeak in discomfort. "Ayesha! What was that for?" He struggled to look around at the cat's face and found that she was already staring at him, blue eyes narrowed dangerously. He recognised that look all too well since he had often been on the receiving end of a cuff to the head from the creature, though mercifully very rarely with claws out. "_What?"_ he protested, not daring to wriggle his shoulders in case she took even further offence. "What did I do now?"

"What, exactly, was so very pretty about that fish?" Ayesha asked slowly, craning her body to bring her little face even closer to his. Her blue eyes never blinked, and never left his for a moment.

"Well…" Erik's normal eloquence deserted him as it so often did in these situations, as he fought for a suitable answer that would help him escape a scratch across the face he might or might not deserve. "Its scales shone in the sun, like silver. It looked like it was coated in metal. I wanted to see what it was like to touch, whether it would be cold or not, or soft or hard."

He seemed to have said the right thing, since Ayesha relaxed and drew back, settling down upon his shoulders again and giving his ear a little lick as if in apology.

"And it smelled a little like Father," he added, being perfectly honest.

"Hmm." She didn't seem so pleased with that statement. "We should go back. Madeline sent me to get you. She's very angry with you."

"She's usually angry with me anyway," Erik shot back, as he started back along the dusty river bank, leaving the fish and its skin and its smell behind. "Why is this time any different?"

Ayesha chuckled. "Perhaps because this time she has a reason, for once."

* * *

It had been agreed long ago, who knew exactly when, that on the days when they were not travelling or in towns Erik would spend the mornings in fairly clean clothes and with shoes on his unwilling feet, studying his various lessons. The afternoons, when the shoes came off and the clothes were swiftly mussed, were his, to do as he liked, whether it be to play or read or draw, all of which he did in astonishing abundance.

Of course, all this happened only as long as he stayed in sight of the camp, which this time he had failed to do without even being aware that he was disobeying one of a cardinal rules of his life.

Madeline was angry, of course. But, as Erik had already implied, Madeline was usually angry, if not always, and with more things than just her little son. She was angry when she had to put the tents up by herself, because Father was too tired or away at the time, Erik was too small, Marie was certainly not solid enough and Ayesha lacked fingers and thumbs. She was angry when she had to chase after the cart-horse in order to strap him up to the cart early in the morning, and tripped and fell because she was so tired as likely as not. She was angry when she had to wash most of their clothes and sheets, even with Marie's help, and hang them up to dry in the sun, only to have them spoiled if it rained and having to do them all over again. She was especially angry when she over or undercooked the food, and she had to scour the pots with Charter magic, despite her continued insistence that she be the one who cooked for the little, for want of a better term, family. Madeline seemed to be encased in a cloud of near permanent dissatisfaction with all around her, and everything that she and everyone else did.

But Madeline appeared to be more angered by her young child than anything else a good deal of the time. Erik had noticed long before today that whenever she spoke to him she pressed her pretty lips together in disgust more tightly than normal, and her eyes narrowed slightly as if she would suddenly spring at him and cuff him around the head, which she had done a fair few times over the past weeks, and the past years, which he could remember surprisingly well despite his young age.

She did not do that this time, though. Now she simply glared at him as she folded her arms, unwittingly getting sauce on the apron she had pinned over her dress from the dripping spoon she had used to stir the stew for the evening meal. Both boy and cat could see that she was in a less than pleasant mood, and Erik's truancy had not helped in the slightest.

"And where have you been?"

"By the river, mother," Erik muttered, doing his best not to stammer in his nervousness. That would earn him a slap as much as anything else, for Madeline was intent that he should speak properly and have no speech impediment whatsoever. But it appeared to be the wrong answer, for her eyes narrowed as he had feared and her voice grew slightly sharper.

"You're lying. You went wandering off _again_, didn't you? I had to send Ayesha to find you."

"You're very welcome for that, by the by," Ayesha retorted casually from her perch on Erik's shoulders. "And he wasn't that far at all; you'd have found him soon enough without waking me from my nap if you'd bothered to go looking for him yourself."

Erik forced himself to stare doggedly at Marie innocently hanging out the washing by the side of the largest tent, avoiding a glare that, for once, was not directed at him. For as long as he could remember his mother and his father's servant had been at odds with each other, their war ranging from frosty politeness to outright hostility. He hardly understood why the two hated each other so; but then he hardly understood why Madeline disliked him either. He tried not to be naughty, but no matter what he did she was never satisfied.

Suddenly he found his chin caught in a hard grip and his face turned back to Madeline as she leaned forward and looked coolly into his eyes. "You know our deal, Erik. As long as you behave yourself and stay within the camp, you have your time to yourself in the afternoons. If you wish to go back on that bargain, however, I can certainly find more chores for you to do to keep you out of mischief."

Erik shook his head violently, and then fearing a confrontation nodded his head instead, unsure which was better. Ayesha hissed in protest at the violent movement, but Madeline seemed satisfied and let go. "We understand each other," she pronounced, standing upright once more. "But to punish you for your little escapade, you can go and help Marie finish hanging out the sheets; and after that we'll be hauling water to boil."

"What are we washing now?" he asked cautiously. His mother had already turned back to the stew, and she didn't even glance at him as she replied.

"You. You'll be taking a bath tonight, so we'll wash your clothes along with you. Now go and do as I say."

Erik sighed, but it was only a false sigh and under his breath. Truth be told he didn't mind working with Marie, even if the sending had only a limited number of facial expressions and no voice. At times, even, the magical servant was more of a mother to him in some ways that the woman who had given birth to him; she – for unlike the other members of the camp, he persisted in calling Marie 'she' instead of 'it' – was always the one who brushed his hair in the mornings and scrubbed his back in the bath, when he had one, and tucked the sheets or blankets in around him at night. He was well used to the cool buzz of Charter marks upon his skin, rather than the touch of another human. To him Marie was a friend more than a servant, even if her eternal smile could get rather unnerving at times.

Marie looked up from her work as he approached and raised her eyebrows, her way of asking a question, as she made room for him to stand beside her.

"Mother says that I have to help you with the rest of the washing," he explained as he grabbed a sopping pillow case and flapped it. Ayesha screeched, hastily abandoning his shoulders to crouch several feet away. Marie tilted her head to one side and flicked water from her fingers towards the cat, causing her to back away further. A rivalry went on between the Charter sending and the creature too, but it was mostly good-natured, and Erik giggled as he worked to see Ayesha hiss at the prospect of water – she did so hate to get wet!

Boy and sending worked well together, and it wasn't long before all the sheets and linen were blowing gently in the sunshine and they sat and watched them move with the air currents, and Ayesha, seeing that the safest place to avoid drips was probably Erik's lap, had ensconced herself there without further ado.

Erik leaned back against the cloth of the tent and stroked Ayesha as she had carefully taught him, feeling her unnatural warmth against his legs, and preparing his questions. "Ayesha?" he asked at length, for the still hot sunshine was making him a little drowsy, and the mask on his face didn't exactly help.

"Hmm?" The cat stretched on his lap, and yawned, her reply more of a purr than anything else.

"Why do I have to take a bath this evening?"

"Because you're a mucky little pup and you're driving your poor, _dear _mother to distraction with all the clothes you ruin and the skin you manage to lose from your knees and elbows and chin?"

"No, really."

"Well, now, let me think." He waited patiently as she made herself more comfortable. Nothing could hurry Ayesha if she wasn't in the mood to be pressed, as he had learned the hard way. "Well," she said at length, arching her back under his careful hand, "I heard tell that a certain Abhorsen was going to wake himself up a little earlier tonight to have a discussion with you, and Madeline's determined to make sure you're presentable. Why've you stopped stroking?"

His hand had stilled in surprise. "Father's going to talk to _me?_"

"Of course he is, you silly little goose. You are his son, after all; he can't avoid the fact that he has to speak to you _sometimes _when he's in the camp, unfortunate as it might be."

"But what would he want to speak to _me _about? He only got in last night, and he's been sleeping ever since!"

Ayesha shrugged under his still hand. "Who knows? Maybe he wants you to display what you've learned so far from Madeline in terms of magic, which isn't much." She smiled a wicked little smile. "But _we_ know better, don't we? Why don't you conjure a fireball for me?"

At that comment Marie reached over and flicked Ayesha on the rump, her brows furrowed in disapproval and her eyes darting in concern to the still drying sheets. The cat yelped and glared at the sending, making him giggle again. "All right, not a fireball then! What about something else?"

"I don't think Madeline would like it if I started doing Charter-magic in broad daylight, Ayesha."

"Far too cautious; that's your problem, my boy. I live for the day when you'll see sense and disobey her once in a while."

"But you're not alive, strictly speaking, so how can you live-" "I _exist_ for the day, then. Goodness, you are picky today, aren't you?" Ayesha snuggled closer to him. "Does this mean you'll want a story, then?"

"Later," Erik said at once, deciding to defer his treat to a time when it was unlikely to be interrupted. "When I'm in bed. And I want it to be a good one." He smiled in anticipation of the tale his only other friend would tell him, enough to bear him through the undoubtedly trying evening of a bath and dinner with his cold, silent mother, and then this unlooked for meeting with someone he hardly knew, and already dreaded with the nervousness of the unknown, who smelled of decay.

But for now the sun was warm, his face was not hot under the mask, the breeze was blowing, and he could enjoy what little time he had until Madeline came to get him.

* * *

The evening's stew had not been that bad, considering Madeline's usual efforts, but Erik had been so nervous that he had hardly managed to eat any of it and she had pulled his plate away at last with a customary frown. He longed to be released from the table so that he could rush to his corner of the sleeping tent, curtained off, and pull off the spotless white shirt Marie had pulled over his head and kick off the tight leather shoes he dreaded each morning, and crawl under the covers, not even waiting to hear Ayesha's story.

When Marie had cleared the table and Madeline set a single glass onto it and filled it with some sort of red wine, the little boy felt as if he might actually be sick. But it was too late to try and escape, for already the entrance to the tent was filled and then he saw the unfamiliar shape of his father, the Abhorsen, _Abhorsen_, walking slowly towards him. He shrank back in his chair as Madeline carefully, tenderly helped her husband down into his own seat opposite him, and then placed the bottle of wine on the table and withdrew, the Charter sending following. Even Ayesha was nowhere to be seen, though that did not necessarily mean that she was not listening in or watching from somewhere hidden.

So Erik was left staring fearfully at a man who towered over him even when sitting down; a man with streaks of grey and pure silver in his hair and lines upon his brow and around his eyes; a man whose shoulders bowed either with age or with some other great weight set upon him besides the heavy coat that he wore. He held himself stiffly as if in pain, and he fumbled for the glass of wine a few times before he caught hold of it at last; but his eyes, when at last he looked up from the table surface, were a deep brown and as sharp as a knife blade. Erik felt as if his gaze was nailing him down to his chair, through his mouth and through his stomach.

Any observer would clearly have been able to see that, despite the mask the child wore, man and boy were father and son. They shared the same shape of face, and the same dark hair, Erik's mouth would one day resemble the mouth of Abhorsen. But Erik had no way of knowing that that, because Erik had never even looked in a mirror.

"So. Erik." Abhorsen's voice, when it came, was faint but clear.

"Good evening, Father. I hope you are well?" he squeaked, repeating the words Madeline had instructed him upon again and again as Marie had dressed him that evening.

"I…" Unusually Abhorsen seemed unsure of what to say to him, and settled for raising the glass to his lips and taking a large gulp before going on. "I am well enough, my son. How are you?"

"I am very well," he managed, hoping he could remember all the things his mother had told him to say. "Mother is teaching me grammar and mathematics and geography and history, and I'm doing fairly well in magic, and-"

"No, no," Abhorsen said, raising his hand wearily. "That wasn't what I meant. I mean, are _you_, yourself, well?"

"Father?" He didn't understand. Abhorsen made a noise that he recognised very well as impatience.

"Take off that mask, child. I'd prefer to see your face while I'm talking to you."

"Take…take off the mask?" Never had Erik been _told _to take the mask off. There were times when he'd had to take it off, certainly, when he was bathing, or when Madeline needed to get at a cut on his chin or face to clean it, muttering angrily all the while. But taking it off otherwise had never been suggested. The mask was something that was a part of him; removable sometimes, perhaps, but for the rest of the time constant.

"Yes. Take it off."

"But Mother said I must always keep it on."

"And I say that, for now at least, you may take it off."

What to do? Erik thought of Ayesha: _I live for the day when you'll disobey her once in a while. _He made his decision and pulled the black cloth away from his face. At once he felt much cooler as he set it carefully down on the table, even if he could hardly meet his father's eyes.

"Much better." Abhorsen leaned backwards in an effort to appear at ease, but at once winced and clapped a hand to his leg, breathing hard as if in sudden agony. Curiously, the boy caught a scent of something upon the air. It was like meat that Madeline had kept for far too long without cooking and had had to throw out. It was his father's occasional scent but even stronger than usual, as if his own leg were rotting right there in the tent.

"Father? Is there something wrong?"

"Nothing…that cannot be remedied. I had a little run in with an old friend a few days ago, and his token of appreciation is still coming back to haunt me." Abhorsen wiped the pain from his face as easily as Marie would wipe dirt from his own. "Erik , I have something to tell you, something very important. I have decided that, starting tomorrow and continuing whenever possible, I will be giving you lessons alongside your mother."

Erik felt his eyes grow wide. "Lessons? Lessons in what?"

"Lessons you will come to understand, in time. They will be very important to you in later life. They may save you life. Erik, do you truly know what I do for a living?"

He shook his head, hardly able to speak now. "I know that you come home smelling of dead things, Father."

"I…see. Well, it's much more than that, I'm afraid." Abhorsen put his hand to his head and sighed. "I am sorry, Erik. I am still very tired. I wished to speak to you longer, but…" He trailed off and waved his free hand, dismissing him. "Perhaps you should go to bed now. Sleep well."

The boy didn't need any other signal; quickly he grabbed his mask and leapt off the seat, skirting around his mother as she appeared in the doorway, hardly hearing her squeak of outrage as he pulled the mask back over his face and ran for the sleeping tent, hardly knowing whether he should cry or scream for joy.

Marie and Ayesha were waiting for him in the soft candlelight, and at once Ayesha was curling herself through his legs as Marie placed her cool hand on his forehead, and then began to unbutton his shirt swiftly and briskly. He was so tired now that he let the sending lift him bodily into bed, and he snuggled down thankfully as she draped a thin sheet over him – it was going to be a hot night.

Once Marie was done and had snuffed out the candle and drawn the curtain behind her, Ayesha hopped up onto his pillow. Now that the bustle of getting ready for bed was over both of them could hear the voices that were coming from the tent next to where they were. Madeline, yet again, sounded furious. Erik listened carefully to catch a few strains of the argument.

"He's only four and a half, for Charter's sake, and you want to start-"

"He's old enough!" Abhorsen's voice cut in sharply, as angry as his wife.

"Well, there's something," Ayesha murmured, her blue eyes shining in the dark even without any light to reflect. "Madeline, being concerned about you. It must be a miracle."

He knew she meant it as an insult to his mother, not to him, but that didn't make him feel any better. He rolled over, away from the other tent and the argument.

"Here, now, what's the matter?" The little cat squirmed to reach his head again, her tongue giving him a soft rasp on the chin. "What did my dear master say to you?"

"You weren't listening?" "I _never _listen in on private family conversations," she retorted, though he could hear the amusement in her voice.

"Liar." But they both knew he meant nothing by it. "Father said that tomorrow he would start giving me lessons, lessons to do with his job."

"Ah." Ayesha licked his chin again. "You _are _a lucky boy, aren't you? Waited on hand and foot by us two, education fit for a prince even though you're taught by a fool, and now you're the Abhorsen-in-waiting at four years old! There aren't many lads like you, are there?"

"No. There aren't." Erik knew this was true. Of all the children he has seen in his short life – which weren't many at all, since whenever they were in a village or town Madeline forbade him to leave the cart or tents – few or none of them had a Charter-sending as a servant, or a talking cat as a companion, or a father who went off for days or even weeks at a time and came back smelling of death and decay. Erik was only young, but already he recognised the scent of such a hunter very well.

"Oh, you're grumpy, are you?" Ayesha wormed her way under his arm and nestled underneath his chin, her body nice and cool instead of uncomfortably warm tonight. "I would fathom that you don't want my story, then?"

"Of course I want to hear your story!" he protested, stretching and moving so that Ayesha was now curled up on his chest. She chuckled as she tucked her paws under her, preparing herself.

"Very well, then. I'll tell you a story about an Abhorsen-in-waiting, just like you, only she was rather older than you are now. She lived an age and more ago and a world and more away. And her name was Sabriel."

* * *

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